Chapter 45

Not for long, though, because I didn’t think I’d live long enough. Cobb hadn’t had the time nor the strength to wrest the safe off its current site on the ledge of the dolly, so there it sat. Even worse, it was looking more and more doubtful that I’d be around to get it back to Mattie’s apartment, my house, or Mr. Sitton’s office. We were going awfully fast, tires screeching on the turns, and the trailer rocking perilously from side to side and, occasionally, sickeningly from front to back.

Clinging desperately to the dolly with one hand and bracing myself against the wall with the other, I began to panic. Was Cobb evading the deputies? Were the deputies even after us? Where was Etta Mae? Had Cobb had an accomplice who’d gotten her? Was the trailer going to turn over? Was I going to throw up?

Then the sirens started, and red and blue lights began flashing through the windows, lighting up the interior of the trailer like a psychedelic light show. It was enough to make one dizzy and cause a headache, too, so I closed my eyes and clung to the dolly. And a good thing I did, for the car and the trailer went crazy, speeding up, slowing down, then skidding back and forth across whatever street we were on, bouncing against one curb and caroming off the other. The trailer tilted, swerved, and swayed. I really thought I would throw up.

Without warning—though, come to think of it, I’d had plenty of warning—there was an almighty crash and banging and screeching of metal as the car came to a sudden stop. The trailer kept going as debris thudded against the roof. Then it shuddered from the impact, scraped over pavement, and flipped over onto its side. I flipped over as well, and ended up on my back under the fold-down table bolted to the side of the trailer. The dolly, minus the safe, landed on top of me. Kicking it aside, I scrambled up and found myself squatting on a side window, looking around for the safe. The flickering light bars of I-didn’t-know-how-many, but a lot of, cop cars lit the interior sporadically, and I was finally able to locate the safe. It had been flung against the tiny under-the-counter refrigerator, and was now safely embedded in a crumpled dent in the door.

Cars screeched to a halt, doors slammed, and loud voices began yelling. Feet pounded on the pavement, somebody smacked a hand against the back of the trailer, and a fire truck rolled to a stop, its ear-splitting siren also dying to a stop. I could see the gear on it from the opposite side window above my head, but mostly all I could see were the tops of trees and a few stars way off in the sky.

I gingerly felt my way to the back door, wondering if I’d suffered an injury that would maim me for life. So far, so good, but I recalled reading that adrenaline takes over in such circumstances, and a victim may not even know she’s injured. I was well aware, however, that my shin had been whacked by the wooden seat of that blasted swing set. Throbs of pain were shooting up to my knee.

Dragging my leg along, I reached the ramp door of the trailer, recalling the slam of bolts as Cobb had locked me in.

Banging against the door, I screamed for help. For all I knew, the deputies had no idea that I was imprisoned in the crumpled wreck. What if they couldn’t hear me? What if they towed the trailer and left it—and me—to be pancaked into scrap metal? Then I heard a sweet and most welcome voice from the other side of the door.

“Miss Julia! Miss Julia!” Etta Mae yelled at the top of her voice, as she pounded against the back door. “Are you all right? Help, somebody! Somebody, help!”

“Etta Mae,” I yelled right back. “Get me out of here!”

Then there was the comforting voice of Sergeant Coleman Bates. “Miss Julia! Are you injured? What’s your status in there?”

“Coleman, my status is upside down and highly uncertain. Get me out of here!”

“Hold on, we’re coming!” he yelled. “The door’s jammed. Got to use the Jaws of Life. We’ll get you out, don’t worry.”

Well, I did worry—needing the Jaws of Life was no minor concern. I sank down on the floor—I mean, the wall—next to the final remains of the refrigerator and put my arms around Mattie’s safe. As I waited, I pictured those hydraulic jaws opening the aluminum trailer like a can opener cutting into a tin can.

With the hydraulic pump pumping and the metal shrieking and groaning, the door finally popped open. Coleman stuck his head in, then looked around for a second, getting his bearings. Believe me, a deputy’s uniform never looked so good. Etta Mae crawled in beside him, and they nearly got stuck in the opening.

“I got you, Miss Julia,” Coleman said, leaning over to put his arms around me. “Are you hurt? The EMTs are here. They’ll take a look at you.”

Behind him, Etta Mae stood on the wall of the trailer, which was now the floor, wringing her hands. She was as white as a sheet and moaning under her breath.

“I thought I’d killed her,” she mumbled in a singsongy way, her hands twisting at her waist. “Is she all right? I really thought I’d killed her, I just knew I had. I didn’t know what else to do. I just had to stop him.”

“Etta Mae, honey,” I said, standing up with Coleman’s help, “get a grip. I’m perfectly all right. A few bruises, I expect, and some hair-raising dreams ahead, but other than that I am remarkably fit. Get me out of here, Coleman, but get the safe out first.”

It didn’t quite work that way, because Coleman lifted me out of the trailer and into the care of two EMTs, bless their hearts. Then he put his hands on Etta Mae’s shoulders, turned her around, and marched her to the EMTs’ truck.

“Sit down,” he ordered, “and let them look you over. You got thrown around a bit when he hit the wall.”

I processed that for a minute and realized that Etta Mae must’ve been in the car with Cobb. How had she managed that? Or had he managed it the same way he’d managed me? I’d thought she was across the street getting her cell phone.

Oh, well, I thought, too rattled to think clearly, especially since the EMTs were engaged in an all-over examination of my person. Then they put me on a stretcher and wrapped a blanket around me for the shock, and it being a ninety-degree night. I kept throwing it off and sitting up, and they kept pushing me down and wrapping me up.

“Etta Mae,” I called, “where are you?”

“Right here,” she said, looking upside down at me from above my head. “Can I get you anything? Drink of water? Your pocketbook? I brought it back for you, but he was already cranking the car. So I had to use it a little bit.”

“Listen, Etta Mae,” I said, reaching for her hand. “Forget my pocketbook—just don’t let that safe out of your sight. Tell Coleman that it’s in my legal possession and, for goodness’ sake, don’t let them leave it in the trailer. It’ll get mashed to a pulp.”

Fearing that Coleman or some other deputy would override her, I sat up, flung off the blanket, and got off the stretcher.

“Hey. Hey, now,” one of the EMTs said. “Lie back down. We’re going to transport you to the hospital. Just hold tight.”

“I don’t need to go to the hospital,” I said firmly. “I have more important matters to tend to, and if you push me down one more time, I will smack you good.”

He laughed and called Coleman over.

While waiting, I became aware of the activity around the Cadillac. The car had jumped the curb and was halfway off the street, its front end buried in a brick wall that I knew had cost a fortune to build. Firemen and EMTs were tripping over the scattered bricks, and as I watched, they lifted Andrew F. Cobb from the front seat and placed him on a stretcher. EMTs, crouching beside him, blocked my view as they worked on him.

Coleman walked over and said, “Miss Julia, you have to do what they tell you. You’ve just been through a really bad accident, and you need to be looked at. Why don’t you just lie down and let them take care of you?”

“I will, Coleman, I promise. But listen, there’s a little safe in there stuck in the door of the refrigerator. It’s very heavy and you may need the Jaws of Life to get it out, but I need it. I need it to go with me. It belongs to Miss Mattie Freeman, and I’m responsible for it.”

“Is it stolen property?”

“Well, certainly not by me. Actually, though, it was, but I’d gotten it back.”

“Ordinarily,” Coleman said, “recovered property goes into the evidence and property room and stays there until after the trial of whoever stole it. Especially if the item is of some value. If it’s not, we can probably let you retain possession.”

Good grief, I thought, some trials don’t even go to trial for years. The deacons of the First Presbyterian Church would be up in arms, and I might really have to move my letter to the Episcopal church.

“Miss Julia?” Coleman asked, a frown of concern on his face. “Are you all right?”

I nodded and continued processing.

Running through my mind was not only the thought of the extended length of time that it would take to probate Mattie’s will if the safe were to be confiscated but also the possibility that someone would pilfer the evidence from the evidence room. I’d heard of such things happening, although how anyone could walk out of the sheriff’s department with that heavy safe under his arm, I didn’t know.

“Now, Coleman, here’s the truth of the matter. The safe itself is of no value—who would want it? And I will tell you that at this point in time, no one has any definite idea of the value of what is in it. It could be one of a kind, or it could be one of a thousand. All I know is that according to Mr. Ernest Sitton, Esquire, I am responsible to the court for its proper dispensation. Coleman,” I said, grabbing his hand, “I need that safe.”

Just then, the bustling around the car increased as the stretcher bearing Cobb was lifted and carried to the waiting ambulance.

“How bad is he?” I asked, pointing in the general direction.

“Nothing obviously major, but they put him in a neck brace. He’s conscious, but not clicking too well—shock, maybe, or could be internal injuries.”

“Probably not wearing a seat belt,” I said, with a touch of self-righteousness.

“Got that right,” Coleman said. “He’s pretty beat up, though. Especially around the face and head.”

“That’s too bad,” I said, making the automatic response of a well-bred individual. “However, one does reap what one sows.”

He grinned. “I’ll go see about your safe. No reason, I guess, for us to keep it. We’ll know where it is.”

As he turned away and the ambulance bearing Andrew F. Cobb headed for the hospital, Etta Mae, still white around the mouth, sidled up to me. “Miss Julia? You think he’ll be all right? That man, I mean.”

“Cobb? Coleman didn’t seem too concerned and, to tell the truth, neither am I. He inveigled his way into town, playing the grieving relative and making people feel sorry for him, and all along he was planning to steal from poor old Miss Mattie. I never wish ill on anybody, Etta Mae, but it seems to me that he got pretty much what he deserved.”

“Oh, I hope he’ll be all right,” Etta Mae said. “I was afraid I’d killed him.”

“How, honey? How could you have killed him?”

“With your pocketbook. See, I got back from getting my phone and your pocketbook just as he jumped in the car. And I didn’t know where you were until I heard you screaming bloody murder, so when he started cranking the car, I didn’t think. I just grabbed a door handle and flung myself in the backseat. I didn’t even have time to close the door, because he stepped on the gas and we flew out of the lot with the trailer bumping and jolting along behind us. I kept yelling for him to stop, but he wouldn’t, and I didn’t have any way to make him, so I just started hitting him over the head with your pocketbook. It was all I had.”

“Well, you certainly did the right thing. If it hadn’t been for you, I’d still be locked in that trailer heading for who-knows-where. Kentucky, maybe.”

“Well, but I’m real sorry, Miss Julia. I hit him so hard that something broke or came loose or something inside your pocketbook. But, really, you don’t have to worry. I won’t tell anybody.”